


you’re a revolution (i will liberate you now)

by nightcalling



Series: 'til death do us part [2]
Category: 1917 (Movie 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Church Sex, M/M, Marriage, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:14:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23059072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightcalling/pseuds/nightcalling
Summary: “It won’t be very comfortable,” Blake says as he begins pushing Schofield gently toward the steps of the altar.Schofield goes easily, putting up no resistance. Why would he? He’s where he’s supposed to be. “That won’t bother me.”
Relationships: Tom Blake/William Schofield
Series: 'til death do us part [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1657213
Comments: 18
Kudos: 167





	you’re a revolution (i will liberate you now)

**Author's Note:**

> Well…I guess this is a series, now! This takes place after [forget the violence, forget the world](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914301), so it might make more sense if you read that first.
> 
> Title is from “Revelation” by Troye Sivan and Jónsi.

It’s the last day of their leave together, and Schofield takes Blake deep into the French countryside, into a small town that’s been invaded and abandoned and forsaken as every town has been since the war began. It’s been empty for nearly six months, a lieutenant had mentioned briefly to him during mess hour, while the man was recounting memories of his earlier days as a simple foot soldier.

The lieutenant didn’t remember the name of the town, but nobody went there anymore, was the point. Schofield managed to find it after some long nights of careful digging.

It’s been difficult keeping a secret this big when it’s both literally and physically very big, but Schofield supposes it doesn’t really matter, in the end. All that matters is the glint in Blake’s eyes and the happy disbelief reflected all over Blake’s face right now.

“I know you said we could never,” Schofield says, glancing up at the crooked bell tower, at the statues adorning the exterior, at the panels of red stained glass of the church before them. “But we should do it anyway.”

Blake looks down at the lone ring on his hand, then surveys the church again. “What if someone comes?”

“Well,” Schofield says. “I suppose then we’re buggered.”

“That doesn’t sound like you, to not have a plan B,” Blake says cautiously.

“Nobody’ll come,” Schofield promises. Nobody should. He takes out the ring from inside his front pocket and grips it tightly before covering Blake’s hand and pulling him gently inside the church.

The pews in the hall are few in number; of the ones that are left, only one or two remain untouched by the splinters of violence that came before. Schofield never gave much thought to what a church is expected to look like when anything other than peace infiltrates its doors, but it makes him feel hollow inside, standing in the midst of the chaos.

“It’s beautiful,” Blake says wistfully from beside him. His voice is small and lonely in the chamber. Schofield wonders if it’s due to the thought of what they’re about to do rather than the size of the building—as far as churches go, this is one of the smaller ones he’s seen in his life.

There are flowers growing between the cracks of the cobblestone floor. Or, they could be weeds, now that’s he’s thinking about it. Schofield finds the largest patch and positions himself and Blake over it, being careful to not step on any of the roots.

He doesn’t know how to start.

“I suppose I should say something before…” Schofield trails off, while opening his fist to reveal the ring lodged inside. The metal has left a temporary mark in the middle of his palm.

Blake smiles nervously. “You don’t have to.” He mirrors Schofield’s outstretched palm before taking his own ring off and exchanging it with the one in Schofield’s hand. “We can just…”

“I want to.” Schofield lifts Blake’s chin and thinks back to his sister’s wedding day, now rather like a distant memory from another life. How did it go again? “I, William Schofield, take thee, Thomas Blake, to be my wedded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for…” 

No. That sounds like something that two other people would say to each other. There’s something about it that doesn’t fit. It doesn’t sound right.

“Sco?” If it was possible, Blake’s quivering voice sounds even smaller than before. “It’s really alright, you don’t have to…”

Schofield presses a finger against Blake’s lips. “Let me do some of the talking for once, won’t you?”

After Blake finally nods, seemingly convinced, Schofield takes a deep breath and tries again. _It’s about the truth_ , his sister told him once. _Tell the truth, and you’ll be free._

“When I first left England, I never thought for once that I would be going back. I’d heard the stories, read the papers, knew that it was an impossible dream to hope for a better future. Perhaps I’d tried, at first, to pretend to hope. I think everybody tries to hope at the beginning, but I ended long before others even began. It was alright. I was decent at being alone. I can’t say the same for my family. It’s true, what I said, that I hated going home. Turns out, I was lucky enough to do it once, and I never did it again. Luck doesn’t last long out here. There was no point in counting on it. But you…”

Schofield takes both of Blake’s hands in his own and feels Blake’s pulse beneath his own, like that day waiting for Blake to wake up on the cot.

“You counted on it. You counted every day like the world ran on luck and not on time. I’d lost myself in the trenches and found myself in you. Days no longer felt like torture, and weeks no longer felt like the impossible, and months ahead were the future that I thought was already past. When I thought I’d lost you, it hurt more than the idea of never going back home, because I think that by that point, you’d become my home. I didn’t need to go anywhere else because you were already there. I knew that anything was possible as long as you were with me.”

Schofield steps closer to Blake and says carefully, with all the sincerity he can muster, “I, William Schofield, take thee, Thomas Blake, to be my partner in life, my other better half, to be as one until death do us part.”

Tears are streaming down Blake’s face as Schofield lifts Blake’s left hand and pushes the ring gently onto Blake’s finger. “Thomas Blake. I am yours as you are mine.”

Schofield regards Blake as Blake collects himself, wipes his face, and punches Schofield’s arm lightly.

“You arse,” Blake protests, “how am I supposed to follow that?”

Schofield runs his thumb over Blake’s fingers. He’d always known his hands were much larger than Blake’s, but it didn’t become that apparent until this very moment. “You don’t need to. Just tell me you’ll be mine.” He smiles, then adds, “I already know you’ll have a lot to say during our blissfully wedded days ahead.”

Blake makes a sound that’s both a scoff and a sniffle, then laughs. “You’ll regret that, you bastard. But alright, then.” He looks down at the leftover ring in his palm, grips it determinedly, then turns that innocent face toward Schofield.

“William Schofield.” Blake slides the ring onto Schofield’s finger with a tremor in his hand. “I am yours as you are mine.”

The stillness of the abandoned church hums warmly around them, like a mother’s lullaby comforting a child. Schofield stares down at Blake and drinks in the kindness of Blake’s eyes, the gentle slope of Blake’s nose, the lovely curves of Blake’s lips. They move, suddenly, and Schofield catches himself just before he’s leaning in too closely.

“I want…I want to…” Blake’s words are barely above a whisper. His hand slides slowly, an aching tempo compared to the rapid gunfire on a battlefield, down the front of Schofield’s chest, over Schofield’s heart, and stops right above Schofield’s abdomen. “Can I?”

Blake isn’t looking at him anymore. It’s a bad idea, what he’s asking.

Schofield continues to stare down at the top of Blake’s head, then shivers and says anyway, “We can.” He lowers his head to rest against Blake’s, and he smiles when Blake jumps slightly at the contact.

“It won’t be very comfortable,” Blake says as he begins pushing Schofield gently toward the steps of the altar.

Schofield goes easily, putting up no resistance. Why would he? He’s where he’s supposed to be. “That won’t bother me.”

Blake’s eyes wander back up as they move in tandem. They sharpen and focus on something behind Schofield. “He’ll probably smite us.”

Blake does his best to hide the waver in his voice, but Schofield has spent too many hours of every day committing the rhythm of Blake’s speech to his heart for it to escape his notice. The Lord’s holy word may be the gospel truth for everyone, but it rings truer for some more than others.

Schofield links his fingers with Blake’s as he continues stepping backwards, being careful to lead them away from any bricks that have been upended from whatever invasion befell this poor town. “If He wanted to smite us, He wouldn’t have let us live.”

It works, because Blake grins that mischievous grin, the one that captured Schofield from the very first moment the boy entered his life with no warning. “Feeling cheeky today, aren’t you?”

After months upon months in the trenches, Schofield was long prepared for shrapnel and carnage and all things cruel. He could’ve never prepared for something as sweet or dangerous as Thomas Blake and his smile.

Death, Schofield could resist; Blake, he could not.

“I learned from the best,” Schofield says when his Achilles tendon meets the hard edge of the altar’s bottom steps. As he lowers himself down and lays his head against the top step, he pulls Blake toward him with one hand curved at the juncture of Blake’s jaw and the other splayed at the dip of Blake’s back.

It feels like the beginning and the end all at once when their lips meet, like Schofield is drowning in the sea and Blake is breathing life back into him, like Schofield is wretched humanity and Blake is Prometheus carrying fire from the heavens to save him. Blake presses down with increasingly gentle urgency, his hands gripping tensely at Schofield’s hips and his soft whimpers echoing loudly in the chamber.

“Do what you want,” Schofield confesses to Blake when they manage to break for air, because he knows Blake too well at this point to bother pretending he doesn’t want to give everything, all of himself and more, to Blake for safekeeping.

Blake cuts him off with a wide-eyed stare and another frantic press of lips, then hangs over Schofield with both arms propped up. Their breathes run ragged and coarse in the small space between them and Blake doesn’t talk, merely searches for something in Schofield’s face. Schofield waits patiently until Blake finds what he’s looking for. They have the time.

Eventually, Blake nods, determination written all over his face, and Schofield bites down a grin as Blake pulls his own trousers down, then Schofield’s. Blake is only ever this serious when he thinks he has something to prove.

Suddenly, Blake flushes pink and hesitates. “Do you…do you have…” He trails off, gesturing something vague and shapeless with his hands. This time, Schofield allows himself the laugh.

“Got too eager without thinking it through as usual, did you?” Schofield teases. Blake was always the type to act first and think later if he had a goal in mind. For some reason, even though it’s a trait that’s put them in countless danger, it’s also one that Schofield finds the most endearing. Perhaps it’s because it reminds Schofield of a time when he himself was also reckless and brave, willing to embrace the world and all the trials it has to offer if only for the chance of experiencing something truly beautiful and profound in return. _You’ll end up with more trees than before._

“Check my pocket,” Schofield remembers to say. He simply stood no chance of being rational around Blake from the very beginning.

Blake fishes out a bottle of oil from Schofield’s trousers and gawks, the gravity in his face all gone. “Where’ve you been hiding this all this time?”

“It was in my pocket,” Schofield states again simply. He may have acquired it when he was stationed at a remote village, back when he’d only begun to pay off his life debt to the war, without telling anybody. He didn’t think he’d ever get the chance to use it, so why bring it up at all? Better to keep things like this to himself than risk giving Blake false hope.

“I’m getting that story out of you another time,” Blake threatens good-naturedly. “You absolute rascal.”

“Like I said, I learned…from the…” Schofield swallows thickly when Blake pours a generous amount of oil onto his own fingers and reaches behind himself. Schofield wonders if he’s dreaming or hallucinating when Blake begins moaning in tandem with his thrusts. It’s getting dark in the church, after all. This is not what he was expecting.

Blake’s moans pick up speed as they become more and more erratic. Schofield is proud to say that he’s typically very good at hiding what he’s feeling, especially during warfare when it counts, but the heat in his cheeks and in his gut tells him that he’s not hiding much of anything right now.

It’s when Blake adds a third finger with a punctuated groan, filthy and obscene in the way it echoes off the eroding walls around them, that Schofield absolutely loses it.

“Are you—Are you sure you want to do that?” Schofield asks. His voice cracks in the middle, and he clears his throat, embarrassed. “Can I—should I help?”

Blake automatically swats Schofield’s hands away before they can get anywhere close. “Later,” he orders. Then, with one smooth motion and a blur of limbs, Blake pours the rest of the oil over Schofield’s length, aligns himself, and sinks down onto it.

An explosion erupts inside Schofield’s mind, and for a moment, Schofield is transported back to that day over the top of the trenches, running an imperfect cross against the lines and lines of men throwing their lives away. He closes his eyes and breathes sharply in when he senses Blake seated flush against him. Bloody fucking hell.

“Sco?” Blake asks in that wrecked voice of his, and when Schofield opens his eyes to the last stream of sunlight filtering in through the stained glass and onto Blake’s entire body like a halo, Schofield thinks he’s ready for the devil to come get him.

“I love you,” Schofield hears himself say. He’s been thinking it every waking moment, but he should’ve been saying it. It didn’t seem real until his lips formed the words.

“I love you,” he says again, this time with more conviction. It’s his gospel truth, and it sounds right.

Blake clenches above him and Schofield hitches his breath, barely resisting spilling into Blake just from that simple movement.

“You bastard,” Blake finally says, choking out a sob. “You beat me to it again.”

Schofield wants to touch Blake, wants to destroy him and put him back together, wants to discover every dent in Blake’s armor and merge them with his own messiness. He reaches out and brushes the hair that’s now damp with sweat out of Blake’s eyes. They’re staring back at Schofield with a fevered gaze and a sort of desperation that Schofield’s only seen in soldiers knowing they’re about to die.

“Say it, then,” Schofield says. He reaches down and takes hold of Blake’s length with his other hand. “Say it.”

Blake stumbles from the pressure of Schofield’s hand and nearly falls onto Schofield before catching himself. He glares at Schofield from under those long eyelashes and breathes out again, “You bastard.”

Schofield strokes once, thumb pressing against the tip in a manner that he knows will register as slightly too much. “Say it.”

“Mmm—” Blake moans, and he is so close, Schofield can tell, so close even without having moved. “I love—I love—”

“I’ve got you,” Schofield coaxes, stroking once more. He withdraws the hand that’s buried in Blake’s hair and moves it slowly, slowly, to where he and Blake are connected. He hovers there, watches the expressions flicker through Blake’s eyes, and gives Blake enough time to understand what he’s going to do.

When Schofield adds a finger, Blake kisses him on the mouth, hard enough to bruise, and comes onto Schofield’s stomach, and Schofield groans silently as he follows soon after.

The sun has completely set by the time Schofield regains some semblance of clarity. He attempts to sit up, but Blake is soft and pliant against his chest, seemingly determined to stay where he is.

“Don’t you want to get off?” Schofield asks wearily, because he’s still inside Blake, and his stomach is sticky, and that can’t possibly be comfortable.

Blake mumbles something unintelligible, and Schofield takes that to mean that Blake doesn’t plan on moving anytime soon. He lies back down and waits. They have the time.

“I cannot believe you did that,” Schofield says, mind stuck on the image of Blake suspended above him. “Who the hell are you? I don’t know you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Blake grumbles without a trace of heat in his voice. He nuzzles closer against the crook of Schofield’s neck.

“Too late.” Schofield pulls Blake toward himself until their foreheads are pressed together. He kisses Blake’s temple and says, very seriously, “You’re stuck with me.”

**Author's Note:**

> My personal pick for what Blake said to Schofield after “Don’t you want to get off?” is “Already did,” but you can choose your favourite phrase and stick it in there. I suppose there may be more if another snippet comes to me in my sleep?


End file.
